One father grabbed his daughter’s hand a little tighter, as if to signal, “Don’t go near them.”
A teacher whispered something to the principal, who whispered something back, eyes flicking between the bikers and the cluster of moms and girls behind me.
Robert spotted me and lifted a hand in a casual wave.
He adjusted his tie—pink, to match the corsage—and walked over.
Sita’s hand slipped out of mine.
“Mom,” she breathed. “He’s huge.”
“He’s also one of the kindest men you’ll ever meet,” I whispered back.
Robert stopped in front of us, suddenly unsure.
This man who probably wasn’t afraid of much looked nervous in front of one eight-year-old.
“Ms. Patterson,” he said with a nod. “You look very nice tonight.”
I snorted, because I was in jeans and a blouse that had seen better days.
“You’re a terrible liar, Robert,” I said.
He grinned.
Then he turned to Sita.
“Hi there,” he said, voice gentle. “You must be Sita.”
She nodded, eyes big.
“I’m Robert,” he said. “Would it be all right if I was your dad for tonight?”
She studied him.
“Are you going to dance with me?” she asked.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “If you don’t mind teaching me how.”
She thought about it for exactly half a second.